


Family

by shinmegaymer (frontierpodiatrist)



Category: Rune Factory (Video Games), Rune Factory 1: A Fantasy Harvest Moon, Rune Factory 2: A Fantasy Harvest Moon, Rune Factory 3: A Fantasy Harvest Moon, Rune Factory 4, Rune Factory: Tides of Destiny
Genre: Christmas, Extended Families, F/F, F/M, Family Bonding, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Family Reunions, Financial Issues, Found Family, Gen, Holidays, Insecurity, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:07:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25535605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frontierpodiatrist/pseuds/shinmegaymer
Summary: Porcoline receives an unexpected invitation for the holidays.
Relationships: Julia/Max De Sainte-Coquille, Maerwen/Electra de Sainte-Coquille
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Family

The weather’s getting colder as the year comes to an end, and Porcoline receives a letter.

His own name is printed on the front in delicate, swooping cursive with a return address from Fenith Island, a wax seal emblazoned with the insignia of the De Sainte-Coquille keeping the envelope neatly closed. Grabbing his letter opener, he blows the accumulated dust off the blade, and gently slices through the stamp to access the contents inside. The writing itself is long-winded and embellished, lengthened with well wishes and various remarks about it “being ever so long since we’ve last met” but the gist of it is thus: an invite extended by Beatrix and her daughter Electra to visit for a family celebration of the upcoming day of merrymaking, and the first De Sainte-Coquille reunion to be held in at least a decade’s width of time. It states the date of the gathering to be the 23rd in the evening (but anyone may arrive at the mansion whenever, as the arrival times will likely vary significantly), so that ample time remains to travel to and fro the island before Christmas, leaving the holiday itself open for any previously established festivities given the last minute notice of the offer. While nothing within the message itself is indicative of this being the case, given what last he heard about the financial situation regarding Beatrix and Electra’s wealth, he suspects the invitation to visit  _ them _ being a workaround at being unable to afford traveling themselves.

Knowing that is really all it takes for him to decide to accept.

For the first time since he can recall, his home is full and lively with the additions of Dylas and Arthur throughout the year — leaving almost pains him even if he knows he’ll return before Christmas, knowing that Dylas has no one to spend the jubilation with should Arthur return to the capital and Margaret to spend time with her sister, but all three of them encourage him so strongly and forcefully to enjoy himself abroad that he almost feels disappointed he wasn’t begged to stay. That’s alright, though, because as long as they’re happy he doesn’t mind if his absence isn’t missed — that’s what he tells himself, anyways. Even with all his excess hair and fat and being wrapped in several layers of warm cotton, the churning wind on the airship ride to Norad is especially bracing, left shivering on trembling legs by the time they dock for him to board a ferry to Fenith’s docks. With a hearty breakfast (three stacks of pancakes, four eggs over easy, two slices of toast with strawberry jam and whipped cream on top, and five cups of mixed juice) from before he left Selphia still churning inside his stomach, the ferry ride is ... rough, to say the least of it. Each and every rock of the boat sends a wave of nausea gurgling up his throat that he quells by keeping his vision fixed to a position on the wall, a trick he learned long ago from Margaret to keep queasiness at bay when the ground beneath his feet isn’t steady, paralyzed by his dizziness and praying the ride comes to a stop as soon as possible.  
He doesn’t know exactly how long it  _ does _ take, but it feels like infinities have passed with him staring at the same tacky wallpaper before the ferry comes to a stop with a ringing bell announcing they’ve docked, and Porcoline stands up and rushes out faster than he’s moved in at least 20 years. This comes to bite him as he sets foot on steady land, and immediately sways like a tree in Lest’s farm about to cave in to the persistent force of his axe. Several passengers immediately rush to his side, the combined force of several people supporting his sides the only might strong enough to stop him from caving to the rickety wooden boards like a baby wooly just learning how to walk, relying on the kindness of strangers to help carry his wobbling legs up the road from the docks to the granite pavement beside the public market. “Thank you  _ ever _ so much, dears, no, truly, I’m fine,” he thanks them all profusely in between assuaging the worried questions of his well being directed his way, waving his hand this way and that in a dismissive gesture, before at last being left to his own devices while blowing kisses towards the generous foreigners as they all set on their own separate paths. Porcoline spends a beat gathering his breathing and balance underneath the marketplace tent, shuddering anew at the somehow even  **colder** breeze brought on the by the seaside winds, spurring him back into motion as he shuffles up the organic dirt trodden roads to his destination. The commotion is audible even from outside the mansion walls, signaling to him its location before he even sees the building itself, approaching the heavy wooden doors and rasping his knuckles in a knock while further bundling himself up in his many layers. A dark elven maid answers the door with a curt but polite “come in, sir,” gesturing him in through the door, but he remains transfixed if only for a moment at her uncanny resemblance to the woman he once knew, before shaking himself out of the reverie and smiling cordially at her invitation as he steps through the threshold. “Your coat, sir,” she says, pushing her glasses further up her nose almost as if in a nervous tic, allowing her to take the garment towards a rack as he shrugs it off his shoulders. She makes a sweeping gesture towards the dining hall with a “they’re all gathered in here, sir,” but he hardly needs her direction to tell him, already finding himself wandering in that direction from the loud and distantly familiar voices of merriment echoing off the walls.

“ _ Helloooo~o _ , dear family!” he calls out in a sing-song greeting as he steps into the elongated hall, met with the vision of his kin he hasn’t seen in ever so long exchanging conversation and clinking glasses of expensive wine together, and some mostly unfamiliar younger faces he realizes belatedly are his grown great-nieces.

“Porcoline! So glad you could make it, darling,” Beatrix is the first to speak up, hurrying to his side to embrace him in a brief hug while remarking “oh my, you’re so chilly” and gesturing for him to sit by the fire, while his other relatives chime in with similarly enthusiastic calls of his name as they come to his side to overwhelm him in exclamations of how long it’s been since they’ve seen him last and “how have you been?” For his part, he tries his best to address every question directed his way while still maintaining a healthy dose of enthusiasm, struggling to keep up with some of the significant changes in faces with the aging of time and circumstance. When the crowd surrounding him has mostly dissipated with his brothers, uncle, and nieces setting off in different directions, he hears an easily recognizable voice behind him exclaim, “and how’s my favourite uncle doing?” However, when he turns around, the gap in his memory and the fully grown  **_man_ ** standing in front of him struggles to keep up — faced with an even taller version of his only nephew, now sporting an even longer and more magnificent mane (alongside a rather prim and neat mustache and goatee combo that suits his newly chiseled jaw rather nicely), and the crinkle of creeping middle age or maybe the stress of parenthood in the creases around his blue eyes. It takes his breath away, because Max is the near spitting image of himself in his long lost youth. Still recovering from the shock of the blast to the past across him, it takes a moment for his nephew’s words to catch up to him and he flushes in delight with a humbled giggle, while putting a hand on Max’s arm and dropping his voice to a conspiratorial hush. “Now, now, don’t say that so  _ loud _ darling, you might hurt Sherman’s feelings. I am of course, exquisite as always! As for my favourite nephew? You’ve certainly grown since I’ve seen you last, and how handsome you’ve become, I’m almost jealous!”  
Mouth twitching even as he looks pleased, almost as if he’s attempting to refrain from seeming too arrogant at letting the compliment to get to his head, Max clears his throat before grumbling, “I’m your  **only** nephew.” Porcoline smiles and refrains from commenting that was the point. Haughtily pressing a hand to his chest as he straightens out his posture, the younger of the two clears his throat (again), before continuing with his response to the nature of his uncle’s inquiry. “Well, I am fantastic, obviously! Julia is as beautiful as always, and our lovely Leann is growing into a fine adult!” On the tail end of his sentence Max trails off with an almost choked sound, wiping away two stray tears from his face in a show of overemotion, and Porcoline finds himself thinking —  _ wow, he really  _ **_IS_ ** _ my spitting image, in more ways than one. _ “Rosalind is ... somewhere around here,” he waves his hand in a wishy-washy motion with no more than a cursory glance around the room for his sister’s unknown location. “She’s quite well, naturally, and the twins are still as bizarre as ever!” The words themselves sound as though they ought to be an insult, but with the cheeriness and genuine smile on his nephew’s face as well as the general strange nature of the De-Sainte Coquilles as a whole, they come across as the praise they’re meant to be. “Father is in good health, as well. There’s only really one issue, well, I suppose more of a ... concern ... of mine,” he mumbles towards the end, pressing a hand to his mouth while looking with suspicion to his left and right before leaning in to whisper secretly into Porcoline’s ear. “No offense to you, either, of course — but do you think ... when I’m older, do you think I’ll ... end up looking like father? You know ... the ... ” he pulls back to gesture to his waistline, and then draws his hands outwards while making a “pssshhhh” sound with his mouth, like a rapidly inflating air balloon. Porcoline can’t resist the urge that comes bubbling up within him, and laughs uproariously at the obvious distress displayed on Max’s face, clutching his stomach from the force of his mirth, only further entertained by the bright red indignance that spreads across his nephew’s face as he panics and tries to quiet him down to avoid getting found out.

After gathering himself and wiping away the stray tears in his eyes from the shrieking fit, he sighs heartily with a great smile, and places a hand on Max’s arm. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Maxie. Surely if it’s a great concern, you know how to avoid it, yes? And I’m sure a little bit of healthy weight won’t drive off Julia, if that’s what you’re so worried about, huhuhu ... ” Max’s face erupts back into the flush he started to lose with Porcoline’s gradual calming disposition without preamble, immediately insisting “THAT’S NOT THE CASE, I ASSURE YOU” with incredible insistence, but the vehemence with which he declares it makes Porcoline positive he’s hit the jackpot.  
Every remaining conversation comes to a gradual conclusion as they’re summoned to the table for dinner, the table being (of course) absolutely  _ packed _ with food on each and every square inch that occupies it, Beatrix barely offering more than a quick “thank you for the meal” as the head of the table before immediately beginning to scarf down on her portion and subsequently giving the go ahead for everyone else. Knowing his family, you’d be under the assumption a dinner party or conversation around the table would be quite lively, but on the contrary — with all of the older adults furiously eating, it’s encased in an almost unsettling silence save for the sound of chewing and swallowing and other such sounds, while the younger members stare on in equal parts abject horror and resignation borne of familiarity. Once a majority of the food is (for lack of a better description) inhaled, the discussions pick up, loud laughter and rambunctious cacophony echoing off the walls. Porcoline sips at his wine and says nothing — he noticed the tree in the main entrance, highly decorated and ornate in its display, yet lacking any presents underneath its magnificent width — and he thinks on the extravagance of this meal, and smiles in a melancholy sort of way realizing this was Beatrix’s gift to them, knowing that while she was sure it’d be more appreciated than any material present ... it was also likely the only thing she could afford. Looking at the younger members of the family and their bored listlessness or expectant gazes, expecting something physical in return for their presence like they’re used to receiving, he wonders if they know how to cherish something without monetary value. If they were ever taught how to, when everything they could ever want is at their fingertips, and always will be. If they ever will.

He supposes only time will really tell.

As they’re all winding down and engaged in various conversations, the maid who greeted him before comes by to scoop up all the plates onto a tray and cart it into the kitchen to be cleaned, which he can’t help but notice is occupied only by her — and he finds leaving her to wash up all that mess by herself as simply unacceptable. With barely even a foot inside, she seems to stiffen with a sixth sense and immediately calls out, “get  _ out, _ Electra, I keep  **_telling_ ** you to let me do my job,” before turning her head slightly to the side to see the kitchen intruder is not, in fact, Electra. Her face colours pleasantly in embarrassment at having mistakenly chastised one of the manor’s guests, beginning to stammer out a flustered apology, but Porcoline only laughs and waves his hand in dismissal of the sentiment. “My, my ... it seems one of your mistresses must be quite the handful for you,” he says, and she only flushes further while attempting to stutter further explanation. “It’s alright, dear, I won’t say a peep!” He giggles, pressing a finger to his lips with a conspiratorial wink before approaching further towards the sink and the pile of dirtied dishes. “So long as I’m allowed to assist in cleaning up myself, that is, huhuhu!”

She doesn’t verbally reject the agreement, but he can tell from the look on her face she’s  _ not _ happy about it.

While cleaning, he attempts to engage her in further introductions, but the response he gets is much like conversing with a brick wall — there is none. That’s a slight exaggeration, she does respond to him, but it’s not with the intention to carry on any talking, simply answering as quickly as she can in a ploy to quell the exchange before it’s even begun. Despite clearly not being a fan of idle chat, she gives him her name, Maerwen; he comments “that’s a wondrous name,” which is what finally seems to warm her up to the idea of conversing, exclaiming in surprise, “you speak Elvish?”

“Why, yes! I was, after all, an ambassador for the elves, some time ago. Had you not known our family’s quite entangled in the political and societal affairs of the Elven Kingdom?”

Maerwen blushes in some mixture of shame and humiliation, anxiously tucking a lock of her hair behind a stick-out ear and the jut of her glasses. “N-No, I knew that. I wasn’t aware of any dignitaries or other officials within the family, aside from Lady Beatrix and Electra, being the mayor and former mayor of Fennith. All I was informed was that their distant relatives were rich, of course, and had a history of making deals with elves seeking to come to Norad.”

Flushing himself with a modest chuckle, Porcoline scrubs down one of the dishes and places it in the clean stack to be dried with a clink of the porcelain, speaking as he grabs another from the messy pile accumulated on the tray. “A ‘dignitary’ or ‘official’ is much too formal, huhuhu ... but I’m flattered you’ve such a high opinion of me,” he sighs in some expression of melancholic nostalgia, eyes drifting to gaze over the distantly familiar appearance of the woman standing beside him with a small, forlorn smile gracing his lips. “I used to have an elven lover, you know. You’re quite similar — only in the face, mind you.” Maerwen’s eyes widen in shock before her expression tips into something like awkward hesitance, seemingly uncomfortable in the realization of her bearing some resemblance to his former lover, to which Porcoline hides a laugh behind his hand and lightly touches her arm. “Not to worry dear, I’m  _ much _ too old for you.” Her face once again catches fire at his reading of her obvious body language, shoulders falling in relief from their somewhat tensed up hike despite this. “I lost her to sickness, before I became an ambassador. Rather, losing her was what inspired me to become one, after all,” his stare falls to the shine of the sink as he watches the cascade of water that falls on his hands and off the dish, smiling in spite of the painful memory as he reminisces on what was gained in exchange. “Through that, I met my lovely Meggy, so I believe it was destined to happen — she’s a musician, I scouted her to play for the restaurant I run — but I view her as if she were my own flesh and blood daughter, huhuhu ... even if she’s just a  _ wee _ bit strict about my diet.”

“ ... My condolences. I’m sorry for your loss,” when he looks back up there’s a certain strain to his companion’s face, something like regret and guilt dancing across the tense pull of her brow and the pull of her frown.

“Oh, dear, it’s quuuu~uite alright! It was ever so long ago, no need to dwell on the past!” His own eyebrows go low on a mischievous wiggle, giggling with a smirk as he lightly elbows her in the side. “Besides, I’d imagine you carry a flame for someone else, a certain ...  **_Lady Electra,_ ** yes?”

Maerwen squawks as her face turns a distinctly almost purple hue, nearly dropping the plate in her hands straight to the floor in surprise. He laughs uproariously as she pouts and refuses to speak to him for the rest of their time together in the kitchen, but he doesn’t so much mind, getting a distinct kick of glee when Electra herself visits and Maerwen nearly turns blue with embarrassment from his knowing gaze on her back.

Among others of his family with a rather long voyage back to their respective homes, he stays the night in the manor to rest up for his return in the morning, gratefully collapsing into the warm and cushiony embrace of one of the luxurious guest beds — a room which he notes is remarkably free of dust and debris, despite the obvious infrequency of when Beatrix houses guests (he also notes as he spots Electra with her own set of feather dusters roaming the halls, with Maerwen hot on her heels and fuming in heated whispers to her, that this is perhaps because they have  _ two _ maids rather than one). With the rising of dawn through the drawn curtains, he yawns on a jaw-cracking inhale, preparing for his upcoming departure with a waking stretch that pops his shoulders — this  **hurts,** and on a groaning exhale of whining pain, he realizes he might be a bit older than he bargained for — and, begrudgingly, that Margaret might have a point by insisting he needs to work out. As he heads downstairs to eat a hearty breakfast before going on his way, it occurs to him he hadn’t brought overnight clothes, but he supposes it doesn’t matter too much in the end. It’s much too cold for him to even  _ consider _ sweating. After all is eaten (and everything is said and done, as they say), he slips Maerwen a envelope with quite the hefty load of money with a wink, “for after I’m gone,” he says, knowing full well how his relatives are too proud to accept such a gift forthright — so he doesn’t give them the option at all. She looks at it for a moment, her eyes growing to the size of saucers before gathering appreciative tears and a hearty flush to her cheeks, mouthing “thank you” as she hurriedly rushes off with the check. His chest feels warm. Must be full of the holiday spirit, he muses.  
Beatrix accosts him in a tight-gripped hug at the door when he’s finally pulling on his multiple layers of coats and scarfs, wrapping her all-encompassing arms around him as well as she can with the short reach, squeezing him tightly with a reluctance to let go. “Thank you for coming, dear,” her voice comes out choked out in emotion, subdued but tremulous all the same, thankful and delighted all the same. “It was lovely to see you and everyone again.” When she pulls away, her eyes are encased in a glossy film of tears that pool at the bottom, threatening to leak but remaining put. Her dry palm comes to cup his cheek lovingly, patting the chubby fat of it like a grandmother might be expected to do before pinching it, but her hand remains there with a sweet smile as she regards him. He smiles back. “But of course! Merry Christmas to you and yours, of course. Anytime you want me to visit,” he puts his hand overtop her own. “Simply give the word and I’ll be there.” Opening her mouth as her lips tremble with restraint, Beatrix says “thank you,” through a choked voice. And with those final goodbyes — he’s off. The trip back to Selphia is no less excruciating than it was  _ to _ Fennith, even though he knows perfectly well what to expect going forward, practically collapsing against the airship’s mast in (a somewhat over dramatizing display of) exhaustion when they finally land. It’s well into the afternoon as he finally steps off the port, exactly when his return was expected — but he finds his stomach twisting in an odd feeling of emptiness, that doesn’t leave him hungry for once, as he finds no one waiting for him.

That’s alright, though, because as long as they’re happy he doesn’t mind if his absence isn’t missed — that’s what he tells himself, again, but it makes his heart ache and shatter all the same.

Even as he returns to the restaurant with a loud declaration of “ **I’M** **_HOOOO~OME, DEARIES,_ ** ” he receives respective responses from Dylas and Arthur of “welcome home” and “welcome back, Porcoline,” yet neither rush to his side — Dylas goes back to diligently sweeping the floor, and Arthur regards him with a kind crinkle of his eyes before returning to crunch numbers into his logbook. Margaret is nowhere to be seen; he supposes she must be at home, of course, but the sting of perceived rejection still eats at him. No matter, though, because he feels rather tired. He’ll simply go to bed for tonight, that’s all, even as the guilt and apathetic reactions plague his mind as he tosses and turns through the twilight. He dreams of his adoptive daughter’s voice gently scolding him as she often does, insisting that he wake up, wake up, “WAKE  _ UP, _ PORCO!”

He comes to consciousness with a snorting start, interrupted mid-slumber and mid-snore, to see Margaret looming over his beside with an excited grin at having roused him. “ **_Finally,_ ** you’re up! I was worried you’d sleep right through the festivities!” Confusion rattles his brain before he realizes precisely what day it is, as Margaret forcibly yanks his covers away, and he objects in instinctive shock to the cold. Clearly, this does not phase her in the slightest, because she only places her hands on her hips with a secretive but only- _ barely _ -restraining-from-spilling-the-beans sort of smile. “Merry Christmas, Porco! Now hurry up and get ready to come downstairs, we’ve all been waiting for you!” She hardly stays around to wait for a response before bouncing off with a hum under her breath, shutting the door to his bedroom behind her as he sits up, positively confounded by these turn of events when she was nowhere to be found yesterday evening. And then, he thinks,  _ who is we? _

Tossing on whatever clothing he can scrounge up for the holiday occasion to be worn, he dresses rather quickly on impulse, knowing exactly what happens when he makes Margaret wait too long. She didn’t exactly give him a location for where the elusive  _ we _ are waiting for him, but he discovers she didn’t really need to give him one, as he descends the staircase to see the three of his wards chattering amongst themselves at one of the tables — and an extremely large and intricately decorated tree at the center of the room (complete with presents underneath), one which he is most  **certain** was  _ not _ there when he left. As soon as he’s spotted, they all turn towards him with brilliant smiles, and suddenly he freezes up in apparent stage fright at the sudden attention. Beckoning him down and further with waves of their hands, as he comes closer he finds the table to be completely packed with a breakfast made for a champion, and his jaw hangs open in shock. “I, um, I made you some, uh ... breakfast. With Meg’s help,” Dylas clarifies the origin of the feast with an awkward flush to his face, coughing lightly into his fist. “Go on, then. Dig in.” And dig in, he does. It tastes sublime, so sublime in fact, that he nearly cries. Then he finishes his meal, and they all grab gifts from under the tree and present them to him, each with his name neatly scribed in cursive on the tag. He opens each of them separately; a set of brand new and freshly polished kitchen knives from Dylas, a variety of rare spices from Arthur that he collected through his trading, and a hand painted portrait (if not a ... rather bizarre one) of the four of them from Margaret — with her sister’s signature messily scrawled at the bottom of the painting. After that, he doesn’t  _ nearly _ cry, he full-on blubbers. “You ... you all ... thank you so muh-uh-uh-ch! I ... I thought you’d all forgotten about me- _ e-e-e! _ ”

“Of course we hadn’t,” Arthur says, in that same diplomatic tone he always speaks with, but Porcoline notes that he doesn’t seem as politely distant as he normally does.

“We wanted to surprise you!” Margaret chirps, putting her delicate hands on top of his own trembling ones. “To show you our appreciation for everything you’ve done for us, and how you’re our beloved Porco, we’re a family!”

That sets off the waterworks anew, as he lets out a keening whine and sobs, shaking the table with the force of his emotions. “I-I THOUGHT YOU DIDN’T SEE ME THAT  **_WA-A-A-AY!_ ** ”

She sounds almost offended that he’d even consider such a thing, pouting at the statement with a tilt of her head. “Of  _ course _ I do, you  **_are_ ** my family, after all.”

Arthur smiles, something small but genuine, as he places a hand gently on Porcoline’s shoulder. “I ... have always been distant from my father, and you already know the story of my mother ... so I am not the most well versed on what a family  _ ought _ to be ... but I know that I consider you part of my own, in a way.”

Dylas coughs awkwardly again, drawing their collective attention back to him as he speaks up for the first time in several minutes, flushing from all their gazes falling on him as he does. "And, uh ... you're the only family I really  _ have _ , so — I mean, all of you ... "

Porcoline and Margaret make a shrill coo of unrestrained affection at the confession, rushing simultaneously to embrace Dylas in a group hug, who voices several objections of "w-wait" and "hold on" before he's absorbed into a swathy hold. His face immediately erupts into a tomato-like hue, felt from the heat in his cheeks against their own if not seen — Arthur laughs lowly at his flustered expression with a delicate hand hovering over his smile, until Dylas himself grabs him by the elbow to drag him into the huddle as well, and his face is overtaken by surprise as it becomes a similarly coloured (if not somewhat subdued) hue while they all accommodate to wrap their arms around him as well.

Porcoline doesn't know what he did to be blessed with such wonderful families.


End file.
